It Grows Like A Weed
by frooit
Summary: The boys get stoned. ::incest::


**it grows like a weed**  
_bds, connor pov_  
_by lilnee  
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_It's not different from any other night they've had out. Same place, same set up, and some of the same friends. Murphy's wearing his same jumper, the black and ragged one that's losing threads by the second and hangs on his frame like a dead skin. He always has it on it seems like. A badge of honor. A safety blanket. He's pulling at the loose ends on the cuff of his sleeve right now, worrying and plucking and listening as everyone else talks. What Murphy doesn't know is that the jumper had been Da's. The voices mingle and pause and Connor finds himself in conversation while Murphy's just sitting close, quiet and removed. His brother was usually like this around people. He wasn't really a social person and he always kept to himself. Only Connor's seemed to have seen his other side—calm, relaxed, talkative, languid and smooth. It's not that his brother wasn't happy or whatever else he might be at fifteen, it's that he doesn't like new faces. He's like every other teenager in the sense that he's always gobbling up new ideas, always wanting the stimulus, always hungry for the adrenaline, sure, but he always pulls back into himself around strangers. You wouldn't say they'd be sharing thoughts just because they're twins, they're two completely different people, but they _do_ have an understanding. Murphy wants to leave, Connor can feel it. He's yawning because it's late, but also because it's the universal signal for _let's shag ass_. That sort of thing. They're out later than they should be. Ma'd have their heads if she had known they were in the old, grey barn out behind the Flannery's house. The one with cobwebs the size of a full grown man, the one with rafters sagging low and in some places they've split and sprayed out. The dust is thick and the moistened wood smell is suffocating. This isn't a place they are unused to though.

Most of them have flashlights. It's a long trek out here and they always come at night. The neighborhood kid group thing. Their clubhouse, Connor guesses. The lights bounce off the boarded walls, holes letting the shine out. There are six of them in all (more than usual, because two of them are relations from out of town), and most of them boys. A girl had somehow slipped in though. She'd had to prove herself in the beginning by jumping from a high tree branch. The test was not to cry. Climbed almost as far up as Murph dared to and then gone for it. She hadn't cried, so here she is. Her hair is brown and thick and tied up in the back. It always managed to pull free in some places at the end of the night, flying away and getting into her face. Connor can barely see her, just the one side of her lips and the smooth edge of an eyebrow lit up by the beam of their light. She'd be pretty if Connor was thinking of that sort of thing. It's not that he wasn't attracted to her, he'd just rather have one of the girls at school or someone else yet. There's one in math class, with dark blue eyes instead of these brown and with lips as red as life and pale, pale skin. She was coloured much like Murphy, willowy like him even, and maybe that wasn't a mistake. Murphy stretches out like a cat next to him, long and exaggerated, nudging him to the side. Connor frowns, shoving him back. He wants to stick around for a bit longer. Murphy's been in a shit mood all day though and doesn't just shove him in return, he punches him in the arm. Hard enough to sting like a son of a bitch. Connor hisses and looks at him. Cold eyes challenge, icy blue.

"Yeah, well fuck off too," he says.

It isn't that Connor's trying to be a bad kid, it's just that he's game for anything. He wants to try everything at least once in his short lifetime. That's how he looks at it: go out in a blaze of glory. He'll bullshit you about it, joking, but it's the truth. He wants to spend every minute of his life doing something crazy with his brother. Doing something so he can remember it later. Because if something ever happened to either of them he might not have enough memories to keep on going. It probably doesn't come as a surprise to Murph when Connor looks at him just then (that ridiculous eyebrow-perked face, that _come on_ face). Murph has the itch too, the need for input. He was even worse maybe. Always came up with the crack pot ideas first, always the first to take the leap, always the first to break a bone or bloody his nose. Their friends are passing around a communal joint. It's the newest thing. Everyone crowding closer, giggling, coughing. Murphy's intrigued because they've never done it before and Connor can't back down, he's got to cash in on his words. Let's see who the sissy is. Let's see who's older. Connor shifts, going with Murphy to the group of hanging heads and white faces. As soon as they arrive, assimilating into the circle, the other kids cheer and the joint is immediately produced. Connor takes it first. This is why they're smoking cigarettes now. This is why Ma' tans their hides when they're found stealing them from her purse. But he takes the drag, slow, daring anything to come on now. They'll take it all. It stings in his throat for a second's pause and then he chokes, has to cough and let it out. Murphy chuckles and slaps him on the back. His mood lightened already.

"Ah, my brother, so dramatic."

Murphy takes it next, looking the rolled cigarette paper over, his face a touch more colourless than usual. Connor's noticed. He's feeling light upstairs, his vision kind of whirling and then snapping back. One of the new boys, an orange-headed thing, explains the concept: _pull in as much as you can and hold it_. So Murph puts it to his lips and takes the hit, pulling it as far into his lungs as he can. The acrid flavour lights on his tongue, Connor knows, and then rolls an acid heat down his gullet. It's been smoking this whole while and filling the barn with the damp aroma of the drug, that pungent plant smell. Like so many old things. Like so many curious things to come. He passes it to the boy next to him, his face already drawn and ready to cough. Murphy coughs himself then and it doesn't stop until his eyes have filled with tears and Connor's thumping him hard on shoulder. He's saying _ah, this is my brother, the fuckin' pussy_ as he does so. Murphy scowls. The other faces are lax and calm but observant. A little dazed, a little out of it, but still in there. Murphy looks from each of them, stopping on his brother's. He shakes his head and mouths _ouch_, the tears rolling down. It takes about the third round for a better reaction and Connor's feeling a little sick by then, to be honest.

Murphy's flopped on his back in the left over hay that's littered around the dirt floor. His face blank and calm, his eyes closed. Connor feels like the world is moving under him, through him, flowing and ebbing, coming up fast and then melting away. He feels like he's being eroded away and soon he'll be gone. It's not a bad feeling, but he wonders what it's like for Murphy. If he's feeling the same thing or something completely new. It's all good though until that girl, the brown-eyed wonder, climbs into his lap. She's smiling, beaming, completely gone. She laughs and leans in close, insinuating her fingers into his shirt. Murphy's to attention then, looking woozy. He won't remember it, won't recall this later, but Connor can see it there on his face. The stab of envy, as pure as hate, as driven and clear as revenge, the jealousy. He's come over and grabbed her by the hair, a full grip, before Connor can realize what he's doing. She's screaming in his face, thrashing and clawing. She slaps him, her nail catching enough to drag a red line into his throat. He recoils, pushing her back and down.

Someone giggles helplessly as she whines on the floor, hands woven into her hair. Connor sobers for just that moment. He scrambles to his feet (despite that drag at his shoulders telling him to just _slide, slide, slide_) and takes Murphy by the wrist, pulling him along and to the wide open back doors. Murphy stumbles, resists against the restraint and then finally pulls free. He almost falls over. All the faces watch as they leave but they say nothing, caught between empty space and a haze of grey. They're in the yard then, the long stretch of farmland that takes you to civilization spanning on. The grass is crisp and wet under their feet. The moon showing them the way but drowned out and ashen. The sudden change in scenery seems to jolt Murphy, he blinks and hunches over. Connor can't feel the cold but he knows it's there.

"What's yer _problem_?" Connor's serious, but the emotion's melting away as soon as it's come.

"Fuck's yer's?" And Murphy yells it, loud enough to hear for an echo.

"Yer gonna get shite for beating up on a girl."

"Doesn't have the right to sit on ya."

"The fuck you on about..."

Connor feels his world narrow, all that's there is Murphy in front of him, dark sleeve hanging long on his arm, jumper itself mussed up and speckled with straw. His hair's ruffled and damp, eyes bleary, blood shot. The cut on his throat has dampened with blood. He looks hurt frankly and Connor gets angry. Real angry. This has happened before. He knows about this. About Murphy and him. He balls a fist with every intent of letting his stupid fuckin' brother have it, but he doesn't. He stares, lets the fist relax and undo itself. He can feel his body getting weak again, reluctant. He really wants a cigarette and a sit down. Just to take a break. He can't keep a lucid thought and doesn't know how much longer he can be here, heavy but spread thin. Murphy stands there across from him and chews on his lip. Connor puts his hand out finally, reaching to his brother. He's decided that they'll just walk home in the dark, fuck it. They'll crawl in through a window and sleep off the rest of this and that will be that. They'll go back to being what they are. Murphy takes his hand after a moment. Connor can just barely feel the cold of his fingertips through the fabric of the jumper.

"This is my brother," Connor whispers, "a fuckin' moron."

Murphy digs his fingers into his hand as they go.

"S'not my fault my brother has a taste for tramps."

"Aye. S'not not _my_ fault you think with yer fists."

Murphy laughs then. And then they both do.

"Ya got the lighter, fucker?"

Connor feels in his pockets after processing the question, the motion taking far too long to complete.

"Nah," he says.

"Fuck."

"Left it back in there? And the flashlight?"

"Aye, think so."

"Fuck."

They'd have to wait until they got to the house. Murphy had nicked a cigarette from Ma's pack before they'd gone out, tucking it behind his ear. He'd winked at Connor. It's still there, slinging some of his hair back. Connor reaches over and takes it, puts it on his lips just to have something there. That smell of tobacco. The tangible paper taste. Murphy grunts, flings an arm at him. At this age they're all arms and legs and teeth. Connor should know because Murphy bites hard, punches harder. He's also got what he's heard people call a silver tongue, but he only seemed to use it when he had to. He's usually too occupied smoking a cigarette or chewing the loose skin around his nails. He never chews the nails, he just tears at the flesh, sometimes to the point he'd be bleeding and then would have to run them under a cool stream of water to wash the red away, the evidence. Connor doesn't like that, but he was helpless to stop it. Murphy's always done it so it's nearly comforting, normal. He'd still give him a smack every once in a while all the same. He might stop, but he'd turn to his lips instead, licking, gnawing. That puffed-out redness attractive. Murphy had a way to draw his attention everytime, to set him off balance.

"So what do ya think?"

"Huh."

It's Murphy's question to Connor, said in a distracted sort of tone. He's looking down at their feet as they walk. They'd been going for a few minutes now, their house a couple more away. The chill is starting to bite at their skin, Murphy shuddering every so often. Connor doesn't know what to say. He hadn't been able to put a single thought together, it all felt like one condensed mass. Murph's question is about what he thinks of _that_, the high, this new thing. The thing that makes it so terribly hard for him not to think about his brother. The thing that makes it so obvious that they'll never be apart. The opposites of the same concept. One's action inducing the other's response. He'd never felt so caught but completely fine with it. Connor hopes weakly then that this is the same as getting drunk. It's not that they don't remember what they'd done the night before, it's that they never talked about it. Things just happen. They had slipped away from the others one night and crashed under a tree in the backyard. Tumbling over the other and giggling and giggling and then going quiet. Murphy's lips pressed over his. They were there because a friend's parents had gone out of town and they'd been called over to raid the cabinets. Murph found the whiskey. Someone else found super sweet, super thick cooking wine. They were piss drunk and they hadn't pulled away until they couldn't breathe anymore. Lips slick and wet. Murphy's eyes had been lidded and far away in the dark of the night. He'd never been more in love with anyone else at that moment, not even with that catch at school.

"I'll tell ya when I know."

"Yeah."

It's their back window just now, dark and lifeless. Ma' has been in bed for maybe four hours now. She never tended to get up after she's laid down and she sleeps like a rock anyhow. They would have gone in the bathroom window because it came out right before the staircase but it's too high, so they're stuck pushing the kitchen window open. It's lower but you still have to hoist your way up and dig a bruise into your stomach as you go. Connor helps Murph up, bracing his weight and pushing him in. He pulls himself through no problem and finds it's darker inside than it is out. Murphy's nowhere to be seen, gone up stairs and maybe into bed. Connor turns and closes the window and feels him then, a warm body against him. Heat all up his back. He's wrapping his arms around his middle, putting his face to the back of his neck. He kisses him there, right behind the ear, and Connor shivers.

"Ya know I love ya, Con."

It's a whisper. Strange. But in all respects, he doesn't even have to say it, Connor can feel it enough. These are some of the things he wants to remember, _these_ moments, it's just that he can't admit them to himself. This isn't what _normal_ siblings do. He's seen enough of that in his cousins and in other families, but this isn't awkward either. He doesn't know what to call it. Murphy squeezes him tight enough to rush all the air out of his lungs. He swallows, mouth dry. This is where he'd be wiggling free, but he doesn't, he puts his arms over Murph's instead and replies. It's less than a whisper, more clear and even, absolute.

"Ah' know."

It's moments before Murphy says something again, and Connor was afraid of what it was going to be as he stood there. Twins, yeah, as many times as he has to say it (they might copy each other subconsciously, they might like food the same way, they might both sleep on their stomachs and pinch a cigarette the same way) but they're so very different too. Connor was more decisive and logical. Murphy was instinctive and intense. He could worry himself to death, too. He opens his mouth then and says what he'd been thinking about for the length of time, his breath a thrill over Connor's skin.

"Do ya like her?"

Connor's face twists.

"Never thought about it."

It feels like such a lie and he knows Murphy knows it, but he doesn't say anymore. They light the cigarette at the stove top burner and huddle out back, making sure not to shut the door all the way or they'd be going in through the window again. The door locks by itself. They'd found out the hard way one rainy day. And if Connor can recall, Murph had gotten a black eye because of it. They stand in the cold again, Murphy shivering but not speaking, passing the cigarette without even a glance. It's a meaningful silence but they ignore it just the same. The stars peak out, looking down. Clouds thin and white move over the moon, sending a shining bright bar across Murphy's face and then mellowing it out to a shade.

"Got a fuckin' headache."

Connor grunts. The smoke doesn't last long between them. Murphy's last exhale hangs in the air as he blows it out, slowly, lazily. He'd been trying to learn how to do those smoke rings for weeks. Connor watches. He may not know what or who he is yet but he knows he loves his brother. Above all else (and maybe even God) that's all he needs. He cuffs him in the shoulder, knocking him off balance and disrupting his smoke breathing routine. He's feeling almost normal by now and just wants to sleep.

"Bed, c'mon."

"Aye, feel wasted."

They get upstairs in four beats: three thuds up the steps and one move to shut the door behind them. Connor flips the light on to see Murph flop down, bouncing on his mattress and then staying flat, face in his pillow. He's in Connor's bed. This isn't unusual. The clock on the wall says it's a little beyond one in the morning. They've got nothing planned tomorrow because it's the weekend (not even church), but sleeping all day sounds like a start. He goes over to Murph and rolls him over. He doesn't resist this time, just going with it. He does throw an arm over his head to hide his eyes from the glare though, even if his shaggy hair was doing a pretty good job of it anyway. The claw mark on his throat has gone dark. Connor feels the need to trace it, press down hard enough to make him wince, but doesn't yet.

"I'm not sleepin' next to ya if you're gonna wear that thing. Scratchy as shit."

Murphy pulls the jumper over his head and he's got nothing else on underneath. Just that nice, familiar plain of white skin and the dip of his stomach, rise of his hipbones. Ma' says he's too skinny, Connor thinks he's just right. He's lying there then, some sense of aloof disregard, some sense of expectance. Connor doesn't quite know what Murphy was waiting for him to do (maybe to just come to bed), but he could feel it in the air. He takes the moment for what it's worth, not quite down from his high then after all, and climbs on top of him. He can feel him tense up as he sits there, shifting upward so he's not crushing anything important.

"A fuckin' ton."

"Eh? I can't hear ya." He's taking the piss out of him of course and leans closer, the movement pressing his legs down hard. Probably mashing all the air out of him. They've been doing this since they were kids. King of the hill, or something like it. Connor always won.

"_Ow_. Ya weigh a fuckin' _ton_. As much as a family car, ah swear."

"Promise me ya'll apologize."

"Ta' _who_?"

"Ya know _ta' who_, shit for brains."

"Why should I?"

And he's looking up at him now, face a nice rosy colour, a nice living colour that he doesn't often have unless they've just been in a scuffle. He's breathing through his mouth, big gulps. His lips are damp, and just as Connor's noticed this his tongue flicks out to wet them again. Every little thing his brother does. Every little motion engineered to drive him crazy. To put it lamely, Murphy is his kryptonite. _You only hurt the ones you love. If you love something let it go._ Blah, blah, blah. Connor makes a face at him.

"Ah' said so."

"Fuck off, ah' won't."

The only way to truly get Murphy do to something he didn't want to do was to give him something he wanted in return. You had to ante up first though. He'd always been hard to bargain with, so Connor did it as little as possible. Ma' outright refused. Right now though, it just seemed important. _Love me and do as I say._ As brothers, you're always proving your loyalty, and this was just another test. Connor moves his head down, forehead to forehead, looking Murph straight in the face. He can feel the heat coming off him, can smell the barn and the cigarette smoke. Wild and outstanding. He admires his brother, but he'd never say so. He may not be as tall or even as strong as Connor, but he was his own, he was Murphy, he was unique. He never knew anybody who could bounce back so quickly after busting his body to shreds, never knew anyone who could show no fear. He decides to kiss him them, in the quiet of their room, right next door to their Ma'. He puts his hand up to his face, threading fingers in the hair he finds there, holding on, needing the contact. Murphy startles him with a moan, just a _hmn_ing compliance, but it gets to him. His insides turn and twist.

"Ya damn well will," he says as he looks at him now.

"_Why_?"

And Murph's getting pissed off again.

"Because ah' said so."

After a pause, after a glare, he huffs out _fine_. Connor rolls onto his side, laughs (the victor), and inches Murph out of the way. Murph grumbles _that's fuckin' low what ya did_ but makes room. The bed really wasn't big enough for two bodies but they make it work somehow. They fall asleep tangled up and with the light left on. Connor wakes up, what feels like days later, to Murphy's mouth inches from his nose, his naked chest plastered to his side. His lips are parted just enough to be interesting, just red enough to be inviting. He doesn't feel like he'd won the argument last night at all then. The morning light stings his eyes. He's staring and then growling and then shoving (legs and arms). Murph rolls and thuds to the floor. It's all about who comes out on top. At the end of the day they're still just brothers. He hears an _ow_ seconds later.


End file.
